


Must Not Be Lactose Intolerant

by memphisgreen



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: M/M, Meet-Cute, POV Second Person, powers!jared, powers!jensen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-18
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2019-03-06 14:05:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13412868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/memphisgreen/pseuds/memphisgreen
Summary: The one where I looked on Reddit for writing prompts and found, where everyone in the world has superpowers, yours is just the ability to call forth cheese.





	Must Not Be Lactose Intolerant

He sits across from you in the little diner, and it’s quiet in here. You’ve had enough of these dates to know to never schedule on a Saturday night (avoid the rowdier ones) and never on a weekday (Jesus, if you don’t get in bed by nine you are literally dead on your feet the next day). So you play it safe with Sunday brunch, casual and convenient. Hey, a guys gotta eat (and who are you kidding, you love any excuse to come to this little hole in the wall, and he knew about it! Which automatically ratchets him up, oh, about fifty million points). Why not knock out finding romantic attachment at the same time? And between the orange juice and sly glances, it’s looking good. 

You just got done with the glorious mess of your French toast when he finally drops The Big One. And it’s always at this point that it’s a curse and a blessing that it’s not required on dating apps. 

“So, what’s yours?” He’s got bacon halfway to his mouth, a big eater which you can get behind but the demolishment of eggs and sausages and grits and biscuits (a momma’s boy, through and through, you’d bet on it) is encroaching on your neat and ordered side of the booth. You clink fork and knife together, forget about scraping the last of the syrup, smile perfunctory, and graciously defer. 

“Nah, you first.” And even after texting for a few weeks and that feeling of maybe, just maybe he’s different, it’s starting to edge towards feeling like every date you’ve ever been on (except for those Saturday night ones, when The Big One doesn’t come up until the awkward morning after, and then it’s bye bye baby, it was nice while it lasted) when this question pops up. He rambles on about coming into his power preteen, the thrill and the rush of limitless strength (god damn it that’s a good one, you’d give your eye teeth for that one), the push and pull of his innate power. He tells an off color story about pulling a car out of a ditch and getting his sweet sixteen first kiss, and it’s sweet and adorable and fuck, you were a born romantic. Light pastels and do or die, growing up The Princess Bride was your favorite movie. You still get weak knee’d when you see Westley. 

You really like him. You can’t help it. The prettiest hazel eyes, and dimples, lord above dimples. He’s sweet and easy and he’s got a good job and he doesn’t live with any relatives and if you could just keep him distracted with more questions about himself (and you nod and laugh and break southern manners by putting your elbow on the table to lean on it, so he can see the fondness in your eyes when he’s telling you about his crazy best friend) then he’ll forget to ask until the next date but at least you’ll still have this one. 

“Come on, Jen, I knew a kid that could only possess rocks. He couldn’t even move them or anything. Level 1.” He whispers, low, but he’s still got that grin, disarming. But. Wow. That didn’t help. At all. 

You feel feverish suddenly, already way too deep for the first date. “Um…” You do a mental fuck it and while he’s finishing his grits you snap fingers (because yeah, it’s stupid, but dramatic and you like that - your mom thinks it’s because you watched too much Bewitched alone when you were little, even though she sat right beside you all through Steel Magnolias, and that’s way worse.) Gruyere travels through the air, magical, and yeah it’s lame (so, so, so lame) but it’s pretty too. (Ratoutille was _life_.)

He’s slack jawed and still breathtakingly beautiful when you wave your hand toward him and this splendid cheese bubbles on top of what’s left in his bowl. He looks starstruck, like love at first sight.

“It’s only cheese...though, that’s it.” You ramble out quickly, terrified that he thinks you can summon things, whatever you wanted to. Nope. Just pressed milk curds. You’re taking it a day at a time. But your last and first long term boyfriend had invisibility and a lot of the reason you have so many trust issues because he wasn’t sure that y’all were compatible, at all. Maybe a little unmatched. So, maybe he said that you were basically worthless. Ouch. You flinch real time because the memory is so visceral. 

But. Jared still looks like the sun rose and set on you. 

“How are you even real?” Genuine wonderment, and dimples! It makes your heart flutter pat, Icarus flying too close to the sun and the warmth numbs you. You megawatt a smile because this is it, this is Love. That’s right, babe, capital letter love. This. Is. Love. 

You let him hold your hand when you leave, walking along the sidewalk, to go cup in one hand and his in the other and your smile brightens everyone walking past.


End file.
